“Very well,” said Justin. His step was jubilant as he descended to the office, to be greeted with the same congratulatory news from Harker, the assistant manager. “And I think these letters mean more orders, Mr. Alexander,” he said. They did. The next mail brought more. As Justin opened them, one by one, it was impossible not to feel the sharp thrill of mastery, of gratified ambition. It was his efforts in the new line which were bringing in this first harvest; all the time he had been outwardly listening to Martin and Leverich, his mind had run steadily on its own gearing, he had weighed their propositions and conclusions in a secret balance. He meant, within due limits, to conduct this business as he thought best. If orders came in every day like this—and why should they not? if not now, at least in the near future—— The atmosphere of the office was festal that day, imbued with the smell of fresh varnish and new rugs. The complications that arise later on as one gets down into the solid experience of an undertaking, hampered by the work of yesterday and the future work of to-morrow, were beautifully absent. Everything was clear and possible; everyone was busy, and the master busiest of all. To write out checks for money which has been furnished by some one else is a keen pleasure at the first blush; the store and the coffers seem illimitable to him who has not earned it. Afterwards—— “By the way, Harker,” he asked once, in an interval of waiting, “what is the concern across the street?” “It’s much the same as ours, Mr. Alexander.” Justin looked up, surprised. “I never knew that.” “Oh, Mr. Cater calls his machine by a different name; it’s the Timoscript. But it amounts to the same thing, after a fashion—not as good as ours, by a long shot; it clogs horribly after you’ve worked it for a while. They’ve got one in the billiard-room around the corner.” “And this Mr. Cater—has he been in the business long?” “He was here when we came, two years ago.” Justin said no more. He went out later to search for a decent place for luncheon in this unfamiliar city, and was hardly surprised, when he seated himself by a little white table in a small, rather dark room, to look up and recognize opposite him the smiling face of Mr. Angevin L. Cater. “I was wondering how soon you’d find this place out,” said the latter. He spoke with a Southern drawl. “You don’t get a very large repertoire here, but what they do give you is sort of catchy. They fry well, and that’s an art. And it’s clean.” “Yes,” said Justin shortly. It was his untoward fate to be usually spoken to by strangers, and he had a much more social feeling toward those who let him alone, but even the shadows of this golden day were translucent. “I reckon you know who I am—Angevin L. Cater. Angevin’s a queer name, isn’t it? French—several generations back.” To this Justin made no reply, conceiving that none was required. After a moment Mr. Cater began again: